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I am turning over a new leaf, I thought to myself.I concentrated on holding my head high as if a book were balanced atop, as I rose to make my way the few feet across the room. My knees wobbled; seemed to have lost the ability to support me properly. Turning, I backed up until I felt the edge of the chair against my knees and sank into it as I had been taught -- still balancing the imaginary book. I turned my head to peer out a tiny window into the street below, ears straining to monitor the conversation that would decide my fate.All I could hear were low murmurs, punctuated occasionally by a frustrated whisper.“INSUBORDINATE. ARGUMENTATIVE." Outside, there were men and women going on about their days. Did any of them have any idea what went on in this innocuous-looking little house on the square? An understated brass plaque marked the entrance. ”INAPPROPRIATE" I heard in an angry whisper, and my heart leapt in fear. I began to study the window. Did it open? I realized that I. He said, “That blood you see on my shirt is not mine, so don’t worry about me. I’ll tell you about it as soon as I catch my breath.”He turned on the TV to the news coming from Chattanooga, and chaos covered the screen. This may have been an automatic camera showing a city street. We could not be sure because there was no narration. The sound was on because we could hear screams and other noise that might have once been intended as background, but there was no reporter doing the usual reporter things.The camera was on an automatic sweep so that we saw quite a bit of what was going on on that street, but there were no breaks for commercials, so we knew that there was some sort of screw up at the station. At his point, Dad was sound asleep as he sat on the sofa, so I switched to another Chattanooga station. Essentially, the picture was no different, except that this was a different street.This time, there was a reporter still on duty, a woman for what that was worth, though I did admire.
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